Lord Finch
by SeveRemus
Summary: What if Finch were the lord of a castle and Reese were an assassin hired by Count Snow to kill him? Alternate universe parody of "Person of Interest." MM slash romance, but those scenes cannot be posted here...
1. Chapter 1

Lord Finch

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A/N: Blame the plotbunnies. After reading Katica Locke's "Silk Stockings," MrsJohnReese commented, "oh my lord finch is..." – which, when I first glanced at it, looked like "Lord Finch." And the rest is... this story. My humblest apologies to those eagerly awaiting updates on my others.

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Once upon a time, there was a castle called Finch Fortress perched at the top of a steep hill, with a moat around the outer wall, a rose garden between the outer wall and inner wall, and all sorts of booby traps in between and all around. The castle had to be guarded so closely because Lord Finch was rumoured to have piles and piles of treasure, which many thieves tried to break in and steal. Most of them were caught by the guards or the booby traps, though, and were fed to the dragon that lived in a cave across the valley. In a way it was a good thing that there were so many thieves, since the dragon might have started eating the peasants in the village below if it got too hungry.

Late one night, Lord Finch was awoken by a commotion in the courtyard, so he made his laborious way down the long flight of stairs – for Lord Finch had old war wounds that ached when the weather changed and made him limp. The Captain of the Guard, a serious-faced man named Sir Donnelley, met him at the foot of the stairs.

"Your Lordship, we have captured a brazen thief who tried to infiltrate the castle last night," he reported after giving a smart salute. "He fell through the trapdoor into the Pit of Doom, but – by some extraordinary skill, I must admit – he managed to toss a grappling hook to the other side and suspend himself from the rope, thereby escaping the Spikes of Death. We have pulled him out and thrown him into the dungeons."

"Good heavens! He survived?" Lord Finch gasped in surprise. "I must make modifications to that trap immediately. I suppose the thief must be executed..."

"Of course, my Lord."

"I do abhor executions, but it's probably for the best... Fusco has been getting grumpy lately..."

"The sentries reported that they could hear his stomach growling a few days past, my Lord. It is high time we fed him some... er... expendable human."

Lord Finch nodded in resignation. "Yes, I suppose so. I will go down to the dungeons to tell the prisoner his fate. At least we will feed him a good meal before he becomes the dragon's dinner."

After slowly descending yet another flight of stairs to the dungeons, Lord Finch was led by Sir Donnelley to the cell where they were keeping the prisoner. As they entered, two of the guards – Carter and Szymanski – were patting him down for weapons, keeping his hands out of mischief by means of a pair of manacles hanging from the ceiling. So far they had divested him of three knives, five vials with what looked to be poison in them (the skull-and-crossbones labels were a dead giveaway), a bolas with rather weighty balls, a boomerang, and a small crossbow with a quiver full of lead-tipped arrows. Carter was in the act of pulling out a sturdy coil of wire from a hidden pocket in the man's tunic, which was only loosely tied with string at his throat, revealing a smooth expanse of taut muscle beneath.

"My, that's... a lot of weapons," Lord Finch observed, nervously eyeing the prisoner's hands to make sure they were securely fastened. "Well. Now that we've captured you, we're going to have to execute you, I'm afraid," he explained. "We can't have thieves running around the countryside, you know, stealing from unsuspecting people and disturbing the peace. We'll give you a good meal today, but once you're done with that – and no later than an hour before sunset, so you needn't bother dawdling – you'll be taken to the Lair of the Dragon, where I'm sure you will... uh... be very satisfying for Fusco. At least you're tall, even if you haven't much meat on you, so he should have a good time crunching your bones. But don't worry, you'll be quite dead by then, I'm sure."

The prisoner, who had winced at the description of his fate, did not seem at all comforted by Lord Finch's reassurance. "Would it make any difference if I told you that I'm not a common thief after your gold, but a hired assassin sent to murder you?"

"Ah... well... I'm not sure," Lord Finch said, startled and perplexed. "We don't really have a precedent for... er... assassins... do we, Donnelley?"

"No, my Lord, but I don't think the dragon would mind one now and then," the Captain gravely replied.

"I can tell you who paid me to kill you, Lord Finch," the man said in some desperation. "If you would give me your word of honour that you won't kill me or feed me to your dragon or throw me back down that trapdoor, I'll tell you who wants you dead and why. I can also give you a pretty good description of the next assassin he'll send to kill you so you can be prepared."

"Oh... Well, that sounds reasonable," Lord Finch began, but he was interrupted by Sir Donnelley.

"Your Lordship, we do not need to bargain with a lowly criminal. He is in our hands to do with as we please. We need only whip him a few times to get that information out of him, and then we will be free to... er... dispose of him, in the usual manner."

"Ah, well... that sounds rather... unpleasant," Lord Finch said hesitantly.

"It won't take more than a few lashes, my Lord," Sir Donnelley promised. "You need not watch if it makes your stomach queasy."

"I see... yes, I suppose that would be best. You know how to interrogate hardened criminals like him, I'm sure..."

As Sir Donnelley ushered him out of the cell, Lord Finch heard the two guards talking inside.

"You be the good cop, Szymanski – I'll be the bad cop."

"Why do I always have to be the good cop?"

"Because you're more convincing. You could probably even get this guy to switch his car insurance..."

Lord Finch was climbing the stair more slowly than he usually would have, feeling some unnamed emotion towards the prisoner – pity, he decided – so that he heard the first few cracks of the whip and the muffled cries of the man as the implement met its mark.

"How... distasteful," he murmured to himself and hastened up to his room. But the cries of the hapless prisoner kept ringing in his ears long after he had ceased to hear them, and the way that the deep-set, expressive eyes of the man had pled for his life haunted Lord Finch's memory. The glimpse he'd gotten of the man's chest lingered in his mind's eye as well.

"It's really rather a shame... quite a handsome man, too, for being a criminal, although he could use a shave and a bath... I suppose an assassin _is_ a different kind of criminal than an ordinary thief, come to think of it... But who would want to kill _me?_ This is all very... unsettling..."

The more he thought about it, the more troubled he became, until finally (not ten minutes after he'd settled into his large, comfortable bed) Lord Finch got up, put on his spectacles and bathrobe again, and began toiling back down to the dungeons. It had taken the better part of an hour for him to return to the cell, but the whip was still cracking at regular intervals, making Lord Finch cringe every time he heard it.

"For the last time, I will NOT tell you," he heard the prisoner declare as he neared the door. "If I tell you, you'll just kill me – or feed me alive to the dragon, which is worse. ARGH!"

The last exclamation was in response to another snap of the whip. Having opened the door in time to see the procedure being implemented, Lord Finch was horrified. He could not take his eyes off of the angry red lines left on the prisoner's bare back.

"Stop! Stop! This is too brutal, too... _barbaric_," he protested. "Plus you're getting blood everywhere! Think of poor Zoe the chambermaid, who'll have to clean this up afterwards. It would be much more civilized to simply spare this man's life in exchange for the information – not to mention a whole lot less... _messy_."

"But... my Lord, what about Fusco?" Sir Donnelley asked.

"I'm sure there will be another thief to feed him before long – there always is. No, Donnelley, I've decided against this course of action. Whether thief or assassin, I won't have any of my prisoners tortured like this."

Faced with a direct order, the Captain had no choice but to obey, so he nodded to Szymanski to stop whipping the prisoner. Carter moved to put the man's tunic – which they had cut apart with one of his own daggers – back on his shoulders, but Lord Finch stayed her hand.

"It will infect his wounds if you do that," he explained. "See how filthy it is! No, that will never do. We must first wash his cuts to make sure they heal properly, then find him another shirt. Phew... He could do with a bath, too, and a shave."

The man looked at Lord Finch with his lips quirked up into a half-grimace, half-smile.

"I'm sure I'm no bed of roses at the moment, but with a decent bath I'd smell no worse than your soldiers' breath," he said. "It's sweaty work, hanging on to a rope for dear life. Your trapdoor was ingenious; the spikes below were... impressive."

"You're the first one to survive them, actually – or to avoid falling all the way down. Which is just as well... It's a nasty business, cutting up the ones who do fall on the spikes so they can be removed and fed to Fusco," Lord Finch informed him as he inspected the man's strong, yet now striped and bloody, bare back. "I give you my word of honour that we shan't kill you, or torture you like this again, if you tell us who hired you and why he wants me dead."

"You won't feed me to the dragon or drop me onto the spikes?" the man asked in his surprisingly smooth, cultured voice. "Because technically, it would be the dragon or the spikes that kill me... You wouldn't try to wriggle out of our agreement on a technicality, would you?"

"No, of course not – we won't kill you or harm you. Or put you in any situations that might kill or harm you," Lord Finch added. "A true gentleman's agreement, I promise."

"All right then, I'll tell you," the man replied, visibly relieved and standing up straighter to face Lord Finch. "I was hired by Count Snow to kill you, since he figures that King Ingram would be so grief-stricken at your death that he would put Snow in charge of this fortress. Then Snow wants to use the treasure to outfit his own army and overthrow King Ingram."

"Why that's... that's... _dastardly!_" Lord Finch cried. "I can't believe... Well, yes, I can, but... _honestly!_"

"If I don't return by nightfall, Snow will assume that I've failed in my mission and send in his next assassin," the man continued. "This one is a woman – a beautiful woman with dark hair and cold eyes. Don't let her beauty deceive you: she'll kill you in a heartbeat and won't so much as blink. She was planning on getting into your castle by pretending to be a gypsy dancer."

Sir Donnelley immediately told Carter, "Go down to the village and see if there are any gypsy caravans passing through the area. Take enough men with you to question them and capture any suspicious dark-haired dancers." Turning to the prisoner, he asked, "Are there any distinguishing features about this woman? Any moles, tattoos, or piercings?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. You'll just have to look for her eyes. Only a cold-blooded killer has eyes like that."

"If she's anywhere to be found, I'll find her," Carter assured her superiors before leaving.

"Well, now that _that's_ settled," Lord Finch began, looking at Sir Donnelley expectantly.

The Captain looked back at him, unfazed and immovable. "As you wish, my Lord, the man will not be tortu—er... _interrogated_ any further, and will not be killed or fed to the dragon," he stated. "However, we cannot release him from this cell to walk about the castle, for he might decide to assassinate you and finish his mission for Count Snow."

"Ah... yes, I see... That would be most... unfortunate," Lord Finch responded.

"Wait – so you're going to just keep me here?" the prisoner protested.

"Lord Finch promised you your life and safety. He said nothing about your freedom – or lack thereof," Sir Donnelley pointed out.

"That's a technicality! I thought we had a gentleman's agreement," the man said accusingly, glaring at Lord Finch.

"Well, ah... this does put me in a rather awkward situation," Lord Finch answered. "But if it's any consolation, we will feed you well – for today, at least. After that it might be bread and water for a while... but once this issue with Count Snow is taken care of, we might be able to... er... negotiate a better arrangement. Maybe."

Lord Finch hedged on that last statement since Sir Donnelley was indicating with his eyes and raised eyebrows that he did not think it was a good idea, but Lord Finch figured that once Count Snow – who, he hoped, was the only one who wanted him dead – was out of the picture, there would be no-one else to hire the mercenary to kill him, so it would be quite safe to let him go. In addition, he was thinking that he would very much like to see the man washed up and shaven.

"I'll have Zoe tend to your wounds and bring some hot water so you can wash up," he said to the still-prisoner – who was silently but obviously fuming – hoping that it would put him in a better mood. "It's just a temporary arrangement."

"Can I at least have my hands out of these?" the man asked, giving the manacles a shake. "I've already had to spend half the night with my arms above my head; my shoulders are aching."

"Oh, of course, of course!" Lord Finch replied, although Sir Donnelley quickly added, "Once we remove all these weapons and secure the door." The man rolled his eyes at that, but seemed satisfied enough. Szymanski and the Captain began carrying out the knives and such, leaving Lord Finch alone in the cell with the man.

"So, uh... How and why does one become a hired assassin?" he asked, feeling somewhat uncomfortable just staring at the half-naked man without saying anything. Although he found that he could not stop staring.

"I didn't set out to be, of course... I was a hunter, and a pretty good archer if I do say so myself," the man responded with easy confidence. "Then one spring, I was asked by Count Snow to track a madman – he'd suddenly snapped and killed his wife and family, then fled to the hills when the soldiers went after him, so I was asked to help. I found him just as he was about to attack an old couple that lived at the edge of the next village, and had to shoot him dead. That one, I don't regret..."

The man fell silent for a moment before going on. "The rest of the jobs I did for Snow... well, he told me that it was all for a good cause, and for the most part I believed him. But lately... I'd been having some doubts. When he asked me to kill you, I thought right away that he was just after your treasure, but I agreed to do it because I needed the money. Then when I saw Cara – that's the other assassin; I've worked with her on some jobs before – going in to talk to Snow, I eavesdropped on their conversation. That's how I found out that he wanted to build his own army and stage a _coup d'état_. Cara's in on it because she thinks he'll make her his Queen, but I've a feeling she's in for a surprise. And I wouldn't want to be in Snow's boots when she figures out that he's only been using her." The man barked out a short laugh. "They're both so conniving, they deserve each other!"

Lord Finch was troubled by so much talk of crossing and double-crossing, but he was intrigued by the clear intelligence of this man to see through it all. "So then... why were you going to kill me? When you knew it would only help Count Snow try to depose King Ingram?"

The man shrugged, as much as he could with his arms held up in chains. "I needed the money. I tried going back to hunting in the woods around my cabin – which is pretty high up into the mountains – but what with all the development and deforestation in recent years, I couldn't find enough game to make a living. It's nothing personal, you know... I'd never met you. Plus I've never met the King. If he wants to stay on the throne, it's _his_ responsibility to be prepared for the likes of Snow. I'm sure there are plenty of them out there."

"Unfortunately, there are," Lord Finch agreed, "but I want you to know, this land would be a far worse place if King Ingram were overthrown. He is a good man and kind, who only wants what's best for his people."

"So you say," the man responded. "Like I said, I've never met him so I wouldn't know."

"Your Lordship," Sir Donnelley announced, almost startling him, "we've removed all of the prisoner's weapons to the Keep. If you would like to step outside, I will secure the door and allow Szymanski to release the prisoner's hands."

"Oh, ah... Is that really necessary?"

"His mission was to murder you, Lord Finch," the Captain reminded him. "Even now, he could seek to take your life and claim his reward."

"He missed the part where I explained that it wasn't personal," the prisoner put in, almost as an aside to Lord Finch. "But come to think of it, he's right – _if_ I were foolhardy enough to try to escape from this fortress, when I couldn't even get _in_ without getting captured."

The sarcasm was lost on Sir Donnelley, who instantly tried to get Lord Finch away from the man (who was still chained) and drew his sword.

"All right, here's my next offer," the prisoner continued with a smile that, while it mocked Donnelley, also had something distinctly wolfish about it that sent shivers up and down Lord Finch's spine. "If you promise to set me free – outside of this castle, to go back and live as I choose – I'll swear to never attempt to kill Lord Finch again, on my word of honour."

"We cannot take the word of an assassin," Donnelley shot back before Lord Finch could say anything.

"I was afraid of that," the prisoner sighed. "Can't blame a guy for trying, though..."

"Um... By the way," Lord Finch said rather hesitantly, turning back at the entrance to the cell, "what is your name?"

The man looked at him for a moment with an unfathomable expression, then answered, "John. John Reese. And I'm entirely at your service, my Lord Harold Finch."

"John... of course..." Lord Finch murmured as Sir Donnelley closed the cell door behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

Lord Finch took his usual walk along the top of the inner wall after breakfast, glancing down now and then to see how the rose garden was doing, but his mind was on the fact that someone had actually tried to kill him – as well as on the man who had been sent to do the deed. He felt no animosity towards the assassin, but he was certainly curious. What little he had heard of John Reese's past evoked images of stealth, cunning, and violence; and while Lord Finch avoided the last item as much as possible, he had to admit that it was all very interesting, even exciting. He was not yet ready to admit that the rippling muscles and mischievously twinkling eyes of John Reese might have more to do with his interest in the man than his colorful life.

Sir Donnelley had recommended (after he had gotten over his disappointment about not feeding the prisoner to the dragon) that they pretend to have found the assassin dead in the trap, so that Count Snow would not know that they knew of his plot. Since Fusco needed to be fed, anyway, he ordered the guards to take half of a steer carcass and cut it up – just as they might have done to a thief's body that had fallen on the Spikes of Death – and load it onto a wagon. From Lord Finch's vantage point on the wall, he could see the wagon winding along the trail to the dragon's lair, where twin wisps of smoke wafted out on the early morning breeze. Fusco, at least, would benefit from their ruse.

As he turned to go back into the castle, Lord Finch could hear the chambermaids chatting over the laundry. He was invisible to them where he was standing, up on the ramparts, but their voices echoed off of the stone walls and were quite clearly audible to him.

"...so he's tall, dark, and handsome, but it won't do anyone any good," Zoe was saying in obvious disgust. "He's one of those queers – I offered to show him a good time, but he just smiled and lay back down!"

"Maybe it's because he'd just been whipped; maybe he was just too sore to go for a romp in the hay," one of the other chambermaids suggested.

"Or maybe he just likes his women young," said a very pert young girl. This remark was followed by such an outcry and commotion that Lord Finch peered over the edge of the ramparts (something he did not normally care to do, for he was not fond of heights) to see Zoe and the girl tussling on the ground, the laundry tubs overturned and the wet clothes being scattered everywhere. Several of the guards rushed over to break up the catfight, but not before the courtyard had been turned into a messy morass of mud, which was plastered liberally over both of the shrieking women.

"Very interesting..." Lord Finch murmured to himself as he scurried back inside the castle. He meant the fact that John Reese had turned down a "romp in the hay," so to speak, with Zoe – who, while not a _young_ woman anymore, was still quite attractive. "But just because he's not interested in her, doesn't mean that he's not interested in _all_ women," he reminded himself as he entered his dressing room. "And even if he were, that doesn't mean that he's... attracted to _men_." With a mental shake, Lord Finch forced himself to look at his reflection in the large mirror. He saw a middle-aged man past the prime of life, coddled with too much good food and wine (as his slightly rotund waist indicated), with a shock of fine, wispy hair that was threatening to recede and then disappear altogether.

He also forced himself to recall the physique of the assassin: broad shoulders, long limbs, capable-looking hands, and deep-set eyes that still caught the light and twinkled with wit and intelligence. His chest had been lean and muscular, covered in smooth, tanned skin, and his back (under the bloody marks left by the whip) was shapely in a long, masculine V. Remembering how the man had smiled made Lord Finch shudder, but not with loathing.

"Such an attractive man must surely have his choice of women. Perhaps his tastes _are_ too refined to sleep with just any old chambermaid. Or perhaps... he really is so sore from the whipping that he couldn't entertain such a thought... I do hope she tended to his wounds properly... and remembered to give him a clean shirt... and some breakfast..."

Thinking of the clean shirt reminded Lord Finch that the man would be washed up and more presentable now, and (since Sir Donnelley was not around to dissuade him) he decided to go down and check on the prisoner once more – just to make sure that he was being treated agreeably, of course.

The two soldiers standing guard outside the cell door let him in without comment, and Lord Finch slipped in to find John Reese sleeping on the hard wooden slab along the wall. He was lying on his stomach (his back covered in bandages) with his head turned sideways on the clean tunic, which he had folded to serve as his pillow. For a long moment after the cell door had closed behind him, Lord Finch simply stared at the sleeping man's face: observing the long, straight ridge of his nose; the dark, full lashes that lined his eyes; and the faint creases around his mouth, which would deepen whenever he smiled. He hadn't been allowed to shave (no doubt Sir Donnelley had vetoed the idea of giving the assassin a razor) but the light stubble on his chin and cheeks only gave him a mildly roguish air. He looked so peaceful and innocent, in fact, that Lord Finch jumped in surprise when he spoke.

"Good day, my Lord. To what do I owe the honour?"

"Well... ah... I'm sorry to have awoken you," he began, trying to calm his heart as it thudded in his throat. "I, uh... I was just checking to see... just to make sure, you know, that your wounds were properly tended to. I... I'm so sorry about that. I should have stopped them before they even started."

John Reese slowly opened his eyes to regard the other man with a thoughtful expression.

"I would have preferred that, too. You might have guessed that I wouldn't give up any information since I knew I would only be killed as soon as I did. Although I suppose if your soldiers had kept whipping me, there would have come a point when I would have preferred to die."

There was no accusation in the man's tone, but Lord Finch felt as though his heart (which had only just settled back down where it belonged) had been skewered with a sword.

"Yes... I suppose you're right. And I'm sincerely sorry to have put you through... so much pain."

John Reese's face curled into a wry smile.

"There's no need to apologize, Lord Finch. After all, I was going to kill you. Although if I'd had my way, I would have used a poison to let you slip away, painlessly, in your sleep."

"Oh," Lord Finch responded, considering this. "That's... That's very... _humane_ of you."

"I do try," John said, languidly moving up into a sitting position. "So many hired assassins enjoy their work too much, I think... They give the rest of us a bad name."

"Ah... yes, I suppose so..." Lord Finch mumbled, his attention riveted on the other man's chest, which – while crisscrossed with bandages – was nevertheless a thing of beauty.

"Did you come all the way down here to... check me out?" John asked with a knowing twinkle in his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching.

"I, uh... well, that, and ah... I wanted to let you know, we're going about as though you'd been killed – by the trap, you know," he replied, having some difficulty concentrating. "That way Count Snow won't know that _we_ know that he knows... that is, that he was trying to assassinate me. Or that he's planning to start an uprising against the King."

"Good plan. Then what?" John prodded, his unwavering gaze slightly unnerving Lord Finch.

"Ah... well, I'm hopeful that my people will capture the woman assassin you described... and then... ah... well, um... I'm not sure..."

"If you'd like for my opinion, you should hire an assassin to take out Snow," John calmly stated. "Problem solved. As easy as that."

"Oh... Oh, I see... and I suppose... _you_ would be the perfect assassin to carry that out?" Lord Finch inquired, his brain finally kicking into gear.

The younger man nodded. "Or Cara, for that matter, if you can capture her alive. I could tell her things that would make her want to kill Snow even without payment. But then, _I_ wouldn't have a job..." He looked up at Lord Finch with his head cocked to one side. "To be honest, I've been thinking about switching careers. I don't suppose you have any job openings available here?"

"Well, ah... we have plenty of groomsmen... more than enough soldiers... enough scullery maids..." Lord Finch listed off, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I'm very good with my hands," John offered, showing Lord Finch his open palms and long, slender fingers. "And if you'll forgive me for being so forward, I've heard that you have some war wounds... Perhaps you could use a masseur?"

"A—A what?" Lord Finch stuttered.

"A massage therapist," John explained, standing up slowly to keep from startling the other man (or perhaps because his back was still sore). "I could rub your shoulders – or anywhere else that hurts, for that matter – and make the pain... just... melt away..."

While he spoke, John had inched closer to Lord Finch, eyeing the older man's injured hip with a significant look. Then he let his gaze travel gradually up Lord Finch's body, lingering on his neck – which had also been injured in the wars – until it came to rest on Lord Finch's somewhat frightened eyes. For, the moment that John had stood up, it became evident how tall he was, and it had also occurred to Lord Finch a split second later that he was alone in the cell with an assassin who – with or without his weapons – could probably kill him with ease. Instinctively, the master of the castle started stepping backwards as his prisoner drew nearer.

"It's all right – I won't hurt you," John soothed, his gentle voice almost hypnotic. "I just want to make you feel better... all better... all over... _everywhere_..."

With each word John advanced, until Lord Finch's back bumped against the wall. And still John came closer, his eyes holding Lord Finch's captive, as in a trance, and with his last word he was close enough that his warm breath caressed Lord Finch's face. It sent a shiver up and down Lord Finch's spine...

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Just then the cell door burst open and a very alarmed-looking Sir Donnelley rushed in with his sword drawn. He paused, however, at the unexpected tableau before him, trying to comprehend it with his benumbed brain. His eyes widened until they were bulging like a bullfrog's as the meaning and ramifications of the scene sunk in.

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Sir Donnelley gaped at them as though he could not tear his eyes away, although at the same time he looked horrified enough to claw his own eyeballs out, if only that would make him unsee what had been seen.

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Finally catching his breath, Lord Finch half-ran, half-stumbled out of the cell and did not stop until he was in the quiet privacy of his own bedchambers.

Sir Donnelley could not utter a single word, though he did lift his sword menacingly at John.

"Hey, can you blame me for trying?" John said with aplomb, getting up off of his knees and brushing the dirt off of his leggings. "I want to get out of here; I don't really care to go back to Snow. And Lord Finch is... well... rather adorable, in his own way."

Swallowing hard, Sir Donnelley gave a threatening shake of his sword in John's direction before stomping out of the cell. With a sigh, John lay back down on his hard wooden bed...

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A/N: If you would like to read this story in its entirety AND are older than 18, please visit my website at TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.


	3. Chapter 3

Lord Finch was still quite flustered when, about an hour later, Sir Donnelley knocked on his sitting room door to report that the female assassin had been captured and was being brought to the castle.

"Would you like to interrogate her, your Lordship?" he inquired stiffly through the door.

Lord Finch was about to decline, but he remembered what Sir Donnelley's concept of "interrogation" looked like.

"Perhaps I ought to," he sighed, putting aside the book he had been reading and getting up out of his favorite chair. It was just as well, for he had not been able to concentrate on the words at all – his mind kept wandering to the amazing way John Reese had touched him...

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Shaking such thoughts from his head (as much as was possible), Lord Finch went out into the hallway to face Sir Donnelley, whose masklike expression betrayed none of his earlier horror at having walked in on his master sharing such an intimate moment with a prisoner. A _male_ prisoner, to boot. The captain knew full well that he could not let any of his subordinates know how stridently his body had responded to the sight of two men engaged in such an activity – he would never be able to command their respect again. But he could dream. Oh, he could dream!

However, he revealed nothing of those dreams as he led Lord Finch down to the courtyard. Their progress was rather slow, for the older man had already made more than his usual number of trips up and down the stairs, so that by the time they reached the ground level the new prisoner had already been taken down to the dungeons. As they caught up with the group of soldiers that had brought her in – still shrieking her displeasure – Lord Finch noticed that she was bound to a chair and being carried that way, chair and all.

What had happened was this: once Carter had picked her out in the gypsy camp, she had lured to her to sit down for a complimentary facial, then tied her wrists to the armrests while her eyes were closed and covered with cucumber slices. Cara was of course furious at having been captured, and since she tried to bite anyone and anything that came near her face, she had been brought to the castle as is. Carter had commandeered a wagon to carry her after tying her ankles to the legs of the chair, too, so she couldn't kick.

Now she was threatening to sue them all with the help of the ACLU, her words peppered with more expletives than a drunken sailor. She suddenly shut up, though, as she was being carried past John Reese's cell door, for the man had been calling her name through the tiny grated window and she had finally heard it.

"Cara, calm down," John told her. "It's going to be all right."

"John? I thought you were dead," she gaped. The soldiers carrying her (and her chair) thoughtfully stopped so she could talk to the other prisoner.

"That was the idea – we needed Snow to think I was dead," John explained. "And I told them about you—"

"You TOLD them about me? You flipping TOLD them, you son of a beagle?" she interrupted in a howl of rage.

"Cara... Cara! I did it to keep you _safe_," John said, not raising his voice to match hers but rather repeating himself in a low, insistent tone until she listened.

"Safe? You call this SAFE?" she fumed.

"Yeah, compared to being _dead_," he replied. "I overheard Evans talking to Root – you know, that pretty bean counter Snow hired last month? – and he was telling her that once you were done with this job, Snow wanted you 'terminated'... You know as well as I do what _that_ means! And that the sooner she took care of it, the sooner they could go forward with plans for their... 'nuptials'."

This bit of information was met with deadly silence for a moment.

"That... That two-timing, back-stabbing ORANGUTAN!" Cara burst out. "That son of a bichon frisé! I'll kill him. If it's the last thing I do, I'll strangle him with my bare hands until his eyeballs pop out of that balding head and string him up by his own wimpy entrails! I'll make him eat worms and furry caterpillars! Him and his pretty little _bean counter_...!"

She continued to list all manner of unpleasant things which she wished to do to them, but at a nervous nod from Lord Finch the soldiers carried her into an empty cell and closed the door, muffling her rants somewhat. From the other door, John Reese was peering out at Lord Finch with a faint, satisfied smile on his lips.

"See? I told you that you wouldn't have to pay her once she knew," he reminded. "All you have to do now is let her out to go after Snow – and his new girl – and you won't have to worry about him anymore. Trust me, Cara is just as capable of killing people as I am."

"Er... yes, of course," Lord Finch mumbled, blushing and avoiding eye contact with the other man.

"We cannot allow assassins to run loose through the countryside," Sir Donnelley put in with a look of severe disapprobation. "The proper protocol is to appeal to the King, informing him of the assassination plot on Lord Finch and the subsequent plan to raise troops for a rebellion. Then His Majesty will decide on the right punishment for Count Snow and any of his cohorts."

"How long will _that_ take?" John asked, rather pointedly.

"It depends on how quickly we can gather the evidence against Snow, and then it will probably take a year or two to file the paperwork," Sir Donnelley assessed. "Then Snow will want to appeal, no doubt, so another two years at least to process that—"

"My way is _much_ quicker," John interrupted. "And why do you have to gather evidence? I already told you what he was trying to do and how he was planning to do it."

"The word of an assassin won't hold up in a court of law," Sir Donnelley said without attempting to hide his disdain.

John regarded him shrewdly. "You're just sore because I didn't offer my services to you, too – aren't you?"

"Oh, my – look at the time!" Lord Finch hurriedly said, pulling out his watch from his waistcoat pocket. "We need to be getting upstairs..."

Sir Donnelley was only too happy to comply, so they left two soldiers to guard the two cells and listen to Cara's continued rants and threats.

The rest of the day was spent in not only composing and writing the letter to King Ingram, informing him of what they had learned (almost verbatim what John Reese had told them), but also selecting a small contingent of soldiers to deliver the letter as well as making sure they had enough saddlebags filled with provisions for the journey. By the time Lord Finch had finished his dinner and settled back down into his favorite chair to read a bit before turning in, he was thoroughly exhausted. It might have had something to do with his... very _special_ encounter that morning with the handsome prisoner, he thought to himself with a sigh as he opened his book to the very same page as he had been trying to read earlier in the day. He had about as much success in actually reading it this time as well, so he decided to go to bed early. Surely, being almost assassinated was cause enough for feeling tired.

He awoke with a start to find that someone was in his room. In fact, that someone was in his bed. While he himself was in it. And that someone was on top of him, planting tender kisses all over his face. That someone was none other than John Reese.

"W—Wh—What..." Lord Finch stammered, hardly knowing what he wanted to say.

"Shhh... You don't want Donnelley to come bursting in again, do you?" John asked, his sexy voice seeming to curl like smoke into Lord Finch's ear and wrap itself around his heart. "It's all right, I sent Cara on her way to deal with Snow, so you don't have to worry about him. And since I saved Cara from getting killed by _him_, she owes me one, so I don't have to worry about her killing _me_, either. So now, we can both... just... relax..."

"B—But, how on earth did you get out from the dungeons?" Lord Finch finally asked, even though John was distracting him by more kisses down his neck.

"Easy. I had a paperclip hidden in the heel of my boot. Along with a few other... handy tools," he explained, untying the front of Lord Finch's silk nightshirt so that he could move his lips down the older man's chest. "I had to knock out the guards, but they'll be okay – maybe just a bit of a headache in the morning."

"Ah... I... see..." Lord Finch gasped...

* * *

**CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT **

* * *

"W—Wait!" he demanded suddenly, trying to push John off. "You could get Cara out of my castle, but you... you didn't leave with her?"

"Of course not. Where would I go? Snow was my last employer, and I couldn't make ends meet at my old job, remember?" John said in a matter-of-fact tone. "I would like to stay here if you don't mind. If you can't find some work for me, I can try to make myself useful in... _other_... ways..." he offered, resuming his kisses down Lord Finch's stomach.

"Oh... Oh, my... Well, I... I suppose... we can find you... _some_ sort of... position," the master of the manor murmured.

* * *

**CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT ~ CENSORED ~ SMUT **

* * *

"That... was... amazing..." John panted, slowly stretching out his legs.

"I... ah... I'm sorry," Lord Finch said as he struggled to get up off of him, **CENSORED ~ SMUT **trying to avoid touching his bandaged back. "I don't want to hurt you..."

"It's all right – I can't feel any pain now," John told him, turning a smile towards where he had collapsed on the bed. "Although I must say, your bed is _much_ more comfortable than the wooden slab you gave me downstairs..."

"Ah... yes... I wouldn't doubt it," Lord Finch agreed, still out of breath.

"Can I stay here for the rest of the night?"

"Oh... of course..."

"What about the rest of my life?"

"Um... You really want to?"

"Yes."

Lord Finch considered this for a moment.

"All right. You're more than welcome to. But I just have to warn you, if you're hoping to get your hands on the rumored treasure..."

"I'm not. Besides, I know there _is_ no treasure – I would have found it by now if there were."

A small smirk crept into Lord Finch's face.

"Actually, there is... but not the sort of treasure that most thieves hope to find..."

"Oh?" John asked, propping up his head on one hand. "Do tell."

"Books, my good fellow. I've invested all of my wealth in books. Do you have any idea how much work it is to copy one of those by hand? It can take a lifetime or more. Some of my books are... simply _priceless_."

John ran a slender finger down Lord Finch's chest as a coy smile played on his lips.

"Then your treasure is safe from me... and from any thieves who may try to break into this castle. Not that they _could_, as I well know..."

The handsome former assassin leaned in to kiss Lord Finch again, this time directly on the lips. Lord Finch felt no fear as he was wrapped in John's arms, and they both fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

**Epilogue**

* * *

Cara was successful in carrying out all of her plans for Count Snow and his new mistress. She was later rumored to have been hired by an Earl with plans for an insurrection, but those rumors are largely unconfirmed.

There were always more thieves who attempted to enter the fortress, only to be caught in the traps with less fortunate endings than John Reese. Their fresh carcasses were fed to Fusco, who seemed to prefer beef.

John Reese attended one of these feedings and took an interest in the rather overweight dragon. Using sides of beef as incentive (as well as, it must be admitted, a whip at times) he trained the dragon to fly with a saddle and reins made of steel chains. On market-fair days, he would offer dragon rides for a few pennies, much to the delight of the children and young dare-devils of the village. Fusco became more svelte as well, and lived a longer, healthier, and happier life because of it.

Sir Donnelley was not thrilled with John Reese's arrangement with Lord Finch at first, but grew to accept it in time. After Szymanski was injured in a hunting accident, he was so attentive in visiting the soldier on his sick-bed that the two became intimately involved, much to the amusement of the other soldiers. However, they could hardly taunt them for their relationship since Lord Finch also had a male consort, so eventually Sir Donnelley and Szymanski became more comfortable in openly acknowledging their fondness for each other.

Lord Finch was a much happier man since John Reese came to warm his bed, and he could often be heard reading from his precious books to his lover, who turned out to be quite intelligent in his own right. They enjoyed taking long walks on the ramparts or in the rose garden, discussing what they had just read or devising better traps and fortifications. And of course, they lived happily ever after.

* * *

**The End**

* * *

A/N: Again, if you would like to read this story in its entirety AND are older than 18, please visit my website at TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.


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